


He's a Keeper

by dracogotgame



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Jealousy, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Hogwarts, Quidditch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-13 03:32:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4506105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracogotgame/pseuds/dracogotgame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry gets benched. He wins anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the hd_cliche fest on LJ.

"Hey sidekick," Harry greeted cheerfully as he walked into the Locker Room. "Ready for the big day?"

Malfoy favoured him with a classic  _not-impressed-by-your-attempt-at-humour-you-plebeian_  look before going back to adjusting his gloves. "You're not as funny as you think you are," he retorted blandly. "And I'm not your sidekick, Concussion Head."

"It was not a concussion!" Harry protested. "It was just a scratch. I didn't see that Bludger coming, is all."

Malfoy snorted. "Tell that to the Field Healers, Potter. I swear, one of these days, you're going to make them cry."

Harry shrugged. Bludgers were just part of the deal as far as he was concerned. Besides, he'd had a great run this season, right until that last match with Puddlemere United. Then Terry Brandt had punted a doozy and clocked him in the head. Honestly, he felt fine but Gwenog was loath to take chances this early in the season. Harry didn't blame their captain. This was her first year with the Appleby Arrows after transferring from the Harpies, and she wanted to make a strong impression. But he still wished he could be out there.

Oh, well. At least they had a great Reserve Seeker on the team. Malfoy would keep the team going until he got back on his feet.

"Seriously, though," Harry began again. "Just make it a short one, yeah? We don't need a long game today. And keep an eye out for that Beater. Jessie Switch can be sneaky when she wants to be, you won't see it coming 'til it's too late. We've only played the Tutshill Tornadoes once before but I think..."

"Potter, honestly!" Malfoy interrupted, casting an exasperated glance in his direction. "You act like I haven't been on the field in years! I'm a Chaser, remember?"

He nudged Harry playfully, prompting a chuckle at their private joke. It was actually a funny story. Two years ago, they had both tried out as Seekers for the Appleby Arrows. Of course, their school rivalry had reared its ugly head during the tryouts. Harry had won by a hair and he may have...gloated a little. Malfoy responded with all the maturity and professionalism of a seasoned Quidditch player. He threw the Quaffle right at Harry, clocking him in the face with point blank accuracy.

He was drafted in as Lead Chaser two days later and the rest was history.

"I know you're a good Chaser," Harry conceded. Malfoy raised an eyebrow and Harry rolled his eyes. "A  _great_  Chaser. But you don't play Seeker that often and I'm just saying you could use a few pointers in th— **hey!"**

Malfoy smirked as Harry tried and failed to wrestle the practice net off his person. "I'm fine," he repeated firmly. "You just focus on keeping your fat head out of Bludger range this time, yeah? Shouldn't be too hard if you're benched but then again, it's you."

"Haha," Harry groused sullenly, struggling to sit up again. "See if I ever try helping you again."

Malfoy just laughed and went back to straightening his gloves. The laces came loose again and he bent his head to tighten them with his teeth. Harry's eyes drifted over. The brown leather string was digging into Malfoy's lower lip. His teeth cinched around the lace almost delicately as he pulled his head back and...

Harry blinked. He shook his head and cleared his throat.

Maybe he did have a concussion.

"So, anyway," he blurted out, a little gruffer than usual. "Just relax and go with your gut. Remember, you were a Seeker first and a damn good one. I always had to fight tooth and nail to get past you."

Malfoy's grey eyes darted to his face. There was surprise there and a...softer expression that Harry couldn't quite place. Something in his chest fluttered when Malfoy smiled.

"Thank you, Potter," he said quietly. "I appreciate it."

His hand wrapped around Harry's in a brief squeeze. Harry swallowed. The flutter thing in his chest made an unexpected comeback and his tongue felt all fuzzy.

Words.

He needed words.

"Uh...I'm just...well, it's..."

 _Words,_  damn it!

"I should get out there," Malfoy said. He got up and dusted his robes off, effectively breaking the sudden tension. "I'll see you in the stands, yeah?"

"Of course!" Harry exclaimed, standing up as well. "And hey, don't worry. The Tutshill Tornadoes are okay but their Seeker's not nearly as good as you. You can win this thing without trying."

"Gareth's alright," Malfoy replied thoughtfully as they walked out. "He's a little shaky on the uptake but he can hold his own, I think."

"Well, that's true but...wait. Gareth?" Harry turned to his teammate with a perplexed frown. "You know this bloke?"

"Well, I should hope so," Malfoy replied with a cheeky grin. "I'm dating him."

_Wait, what?!_

Harry faltered and skidded to a halt again. Malfoy slowed down beside him, looking somewhat confused,

"Dating?" Harry blurted. His pulse was racing. His heart thudded and the world looked shakier all of a sudden. "Like... _dating_  dating?"

Surely, there was some kind of mistake. Malfoy was his teammate! They spent so much time together. He would have known if...

"Is there another kind?" Malfoy asked with a shrug.

Harry just stared at him, completely unable to come to grips with the situation. "But...you...no, wait a minute. When did you even…"

The whistle blew at cut him off. Cheers went up in the stadium. Malfoy hoisted his Firebolt Special Edition on his shoulder. "Here we go. Wish me luck, Potter."

He walked away, leaving Harry to watch his retreating back.

"Yeah," Harry mumbled. "Good luck."

The giddy fluttering had gone away. Now, his chest just felt heavy. And ironically, hollow.

Harry's shoulders slumped and he trudged his way to the stands.

* * *

 

_Twenty minutes in._

_Arrows: 30, Tornadoes: 20._

Harry jiggled his foot nervously and turned his eyes skyward, anxious not to miss even a second of this match— a match which, for some unfathomable reason, had become extremely important all of a sudden.

Malfoy was killing it out there.

The Snitch was elusive so far, except for one heart stopping moment when the Tornadoes' Seeker nearly got his grubby paws on it. Malfoy had successfully blocked him, but at the expense of his own shot at the Snitch. The Chasers were holding their own too. Malfoy's replacement— that kid, Michael— was doing a good job. But all Harry could focus on was the Seekers.

Malfoy flew overhead, circling the pitch gracefully. The Tornadoes were clearly not prepared for his manoeuvres. Harry suspected that they had practiced with his own direct style in mind. Malfoy played differently. He was all sly twists and clever feints and the opposition just couldn't deal with it.

Of course, one would assume that his  _boyfriend_  would be familiar with those...moves.

Harry's jaw clenched and he turned his gaze away from Malfoy resolutely. That only left one target. Gareth was hot on Malfoy's trail, apparently having elected to tail  _him_  rather than bother looking for the Snitch himself. Harry made a small noise of disgust in his throat. He hated that move. It was lazy and unsportsmanlike. His flying was clumsy too. He was so shaky that Harry actually feared for him in the event of a stray breeze.

Merlin, what was Malfoy even  _doing_  with this loser?

He could do so much better. He deserved better. Someone as fit and smart and clever as Malfoy could have anybody he wanted. There were blokes— nice, decent blokes who could  _fly in a damned straight line_ — who would be honoured to have Malfoy by their side.

Maybe...maybe those blokes should have said something. Maybe those blokes had missed their damned chance because they were too thick to see what was right in front of them. If someone had told Har— _those blokes_  that Malfoy was a prize who would be snatched away just like that, they might have done something about it.

And now, it was too late. Malfoy had Gareth  _(for Merlin's sake, man! It's a broom, not a merry-go-round!)_  and there was nothing to be done about...

"There! I see it!"

The crowd erupted around him and Harry jerked back to reality. The glint of gold at the corner of his eye instinctively drew his attention.

The Snitch!

"Malfoy, go!" Harry yelled. "To your left!  **Your left!"**

Malfoy pulled a sharp left and headed back. Harry's heart pounded as he picked up speed. He was going against the wind and that would slow him down but on the plus side, it would slow the Snitch down too. Gareth had spotted the commotion and was hot on Malfoy's trail. He was catching up. Harry's heart did a somersault as Gareth swerved right next to Malfoy and...  _was he trying to shove him?!_

"Foul!" Harry yelled angrily. "That's a fucking  **foul!** Where's the Ref?!"

But there was no time for protests. The Snitch was hovering uncertainly, seemingly caught between an air current and the two Seekers. Malfoy swerved ahead, stretched out his hand and...

"Yes!" Harry howled.

Malfoy's fingers wrapped around the golden ball. He raised his fist and the Snitch fluttered petulantly in his fingers.

The crowd went wild.

"Appleby Arrows: 180! Tutshill Tornadoes: 20!" yelled the announcer. "The match is over. Arrows win!"

Harry whooped as loud as he could and applauded like a madman. They'd done it! They'd won the match! All thanks to Malfoy.

Gods, that was  _amazing._

 _He_  was amazing.

The Arrows landed on the pitch one by one, whooping and cheering. Malfoy grinned good-naturedly and accepted handshakes and pats on the back from their team. The Tornadoes shuffled over, some nodding gruffly and others offering half-hearted handshakes.

That's when it happened.

Gareth strode up, purple-faced and furious. Harry gaped as the man waded through the group before coming to a halt in front of Malfoy. Gareth said something and Malfoy's eyes widened in surprise. A second later, they narrowed and he sneered. Gareth was yelling now— the words still faint, but Harry definitely heard the phrase dirty cheater thrown in there.

_Oh, hell no!_

His jaw clenched and he leapt over the stands. In seconds, he was making for the small crowd gathering around the two Seekers.

Gareth was shouting again, waving an agitated hand around. The Tornadoes' Keeper came forward, presumably to lead him off. Gareth shoved him and barged into Malfoy's personal space.

Harry was barely ten feet away when Malfoy spoke up, his tone cool and condescending.

"Can't handle a little competition, Gareth?"

Evidently, that was the last straw. Gareth swung his fist back and hit Malfoy right in the face. Malfoy went down with a sickening  _crack_ and Harry's vision went blood red.

"You  **bastard!"** he snarled, practically sprinting forward.

Malfoy was on the ground and Gareth was pulling his fist back again, apparently intending to follow up his unwarranted assault.

Harry didn't give him a chance. He practically launched himself at the arsehole and  _threw_  him off Malfoy. And then he landed a punch of his own.

Gareth went down and Harry went with him. They rolled on the muddy pitch, throwing punches and kicks. Gareth was bigger but Harry had speed and sheer adrenalin-fuelled rage on his side. He pummelled the bastard right into the dirt and then he did it again. All he could think about was the crack of Gareth's fist against Malfoy's face, the way Malfoy had hit the ground, the bruise blooming against that pale cheek. Harry snarled and landed a solid uppercut again, sending Gareth sprawling.

He wasn't even aware of the crowd around them until two sets of hands pulled him off. Harry struggled in his teammates' grip, ignoring their shouts and attempts at placation.

"You don't get to hit him!" he yelled at the groaning lump of Gareth. "Don't ever touch him again, you sick bastard! I'll kill you if you do! I'll fucking  **kill you!"**

**"** **Potter!"**

Harry's vision cleared and fixed on his furious Captain.

"You're suspended!" Gwenog yelled. "Get off this pitch now!  **Now, Potter!"**

Harry sneered and shoved past her, making for the Locker Room with angry strides. From the corner of his eye, he thought he caught a glimpse of Malfoy staring after him.

Harry didn't look back.

He didn't think he could handle the knowing look in those grey eyes.

* * *

 

Harry was man enough to admit that he was sulking.

"I don't need a Pain Relief Potion!" he growled at the harassed Field Healer. "Just leave me alone, will you? I wasn't even  _in_  the match. Read your job description!"

"I've got this, Sharon. Thank you."

The familiar voice made him jump.

_Oh no._

Malfoy approached and waved the Healer away. She left with a grateful nod and a dirty look in Harry's general direction. Harry scowled and averted his gaze, staring resolutely at the wall. His head was throbbing, his fist was bruised and he was in no mood for a shouting match right now.

Or worse, pity.

Malfoy sat on the edge of the bench.

"I spoke to Gwen," he began carefully. "She's agreed to review your suspension. Chances are you'll be Seeker for the next match, provided you can behave yourself on the pitch. Her words, not mine."

Harry snorted. He wasn't interested in Quidditch at the moment. All he really wanted to know was...

"I also had words with Gareth."

Harry stiffened and turned to look at Malfoy. He still had a slight bruise from the brawl, but it was already fading. "And?" he demanded.

Malfoy smirked and waggled the vial. "I'll tell you if you drink the Potion."

Sneaky git.

Harry grudgingly downed the foul liquid. The throbbing in his head receded a little and the swelling in his wrist dissipated. Harry sighed in relief. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall. Suddenly, something cool and wet brushed his forehead. He jerked up, only to be steadied by a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Normally, I'd use a spell," Malfoy murmured, dabbing the cloth and pressing it to Harry's bruised forehead again. "But I find this more relaxing, don't you?"

Harry didn't reply. He was too busy trying to keep himself from shamelessly staring at Malfoy's lips—which were now within kissing distance— as he leaned over to tend to Harry's wounds. Harry swallowed audibly and focused on a spot on the wall behind Malfoy, trying to keep his hands from planting themselves on those narrow hips.

Malfoy seemed rather oblivious of the precarious position he was in. He just went on with his impromptu healing, dabbing Harry's wounds with a gentleness that seemed very uncharacteristic.

"You're an idiot, Potter."

Ah, yes. There it was. There was the Malfoy he knew and lo...knew.

"What were you thinking jumping in like that?" Malfoy demanded. He sounded angry but his touch was still almost painfully gentle. "He's twice your size, Potter. Did you honestly think I was going to let him get away with that punch? I can fight my own battles, you know. Did you really think..."

"No."

Malfoy paused and gave him an enquiring look.

"No, I  _didn't_  think," Harry clarified sullenly. "He hit you. He  _hit_  you. So no, I wasn't thinking. I was too busy trying to tear his head off to  _think."_

Malfoy's expression softened a little. "I suppose that's as good an explanation as any," he conceded. "If it makes you feel any better, he's in a bad way. He couldn't even move his jaw enough to talk when I broke up with him."

Harry shot up in his seat at that bit of information. "You broke up with him?"

"Well, obviously," Malfoy scoffed. "The man's an idiot and a sore loser. And he can't fly to save his life."

"I know, right?!" Harry exclaimed enthusiastically. "Did you see that formation loop? So sloppy!"

"Very sloppy," Malfoy agreed with a fond smile. "Nothing like yours."

"Yeah! Like he had a Bludger up his...uh, mine?"

"Mm hm," Malfoy replied noncommittally. He put the cloth down. Harry inhaled sharply as deft fingers brushed his temples, pushing his hair back gently. "He doesn't move like you do. He never could."

"I...um..."

"You know what I mean, Harry." Malfoy slid closer. A sly smile played on his lips. "The way you move on the pitch. Fierce. Determined. Swift. You strike like lightning. You're a force of nature."

Harry's brain was struggling to keep up. "Me? But I...I'm just..."

"Sometimes I wonder," Malfoy mused, raking a hand through his messy hair again. Those slim fingers massaged his scalp and Harry emitted an involuntary hiss of pleasure. "I wonder," Malfoy continued, "if you employ the same moves...elsewhere."

"Oh. I, uh..."

"But there's more to you than how good you look on a broom, isn't there?" Malfoy's fingers trailed away, only to be replaced by cool lips against his skin. "You're so generous too. And good. And brave. You fought for me today. I can't tell you what that means to me."

"I couldn't...let him..." Harry stuttered as those lips traced his throat.

"Can I tell you a secret, Harry?"

Oh Godric,  _anything._

"Okay," Harry squeaked.

"I only dated Gareth because," Malfoy paused and brushed his lips against Harry's. The soft touch was electric, sending sharp pulses down his nerve endings. Malfoy gazed up with hooded eyes and continued, "I didn't think I could have the man I really wanted."

"Who..."

" _You,_ idiot."

Draco pulled away. His lips twitched at Harry's whine of dismay. Harry gazed at him with wide, confused eyes and Draco's smile softened. "I've always wanted you, Harry. I just didn't think you could ever want me back. Not until I saw you today. How furious you were, how badly you wanted to hurt him for touching what was yours. Do you want to touch me, Harry?"

Harry couldn't have stopped himself if he tried. His hands reached out of their own volition and planted themselves squarely on Draco's hips. It took a few tries but he finally got his tongue untied again.

"Everywhere."

He took a chance and buried his face in Draco's neck. He smelled like leather and fresh grass. It was  _intoxicating._  Draco shifted against him, brushing their groins together.

"I want you to," he whispered. "So badly."

Capital idea.

"But not now."

Okay, less capital.

"Why the hell not?" Harry whined. Surely, Draco wasn't going to leave him in this state? All hot and bothered...he was an injured man, for Merlin's sake!

"You're still hurt," Draco replied gently. "The Healer said no strenuous physical activity for a while. You need to relax."

Oh.

Harry was just about to resume his sulking. Then, something brilliant happened.

Draco slipped off his lap, positioned himself between Harry's thighs and grinned.

"I, on the other hand, can do whatever I want.."

That was all the warning Harry got.

Then slim fingers fumbled with his zipper and tugged at his fly. Draco's eyes narrowed speculatively, sizing him up. The look in them was appreciative and almost...hungry.

Harry's cock preened at the attention.

"Very nice," Draco whispered. His tongue darted out to swipe at that plump lower lip. Harry groaned at the sight, prompting another grin.

"Remember," Draco purred. "No touching. We don't want you to strain anything, do we?"

Harry nodded stiffly and obediently clenched his fists. At this point, he would agree to anything to get this party started.

Draco lowered his head and licked a strip down Harry's shaft.

"Fuck!" Harry hissed, throwing his head back. His fists clenched at his sides and he forced his breathing to a slow, steady rhythm. He had to calm down or this would be over before…

"Oh, god," Harry groaned as Draco sucked at the head, swiping gently with his tongue. "Fuck, Draco! Where...oh, god...  _where_  did you learn that?"

Draco released him with a soft  _pop._  "I can talk, or I can continue," he teased. "You pick."

Screw the no touching rule.

Harry clenched his teeth and wrapped a firm hand in those blond locks. Draco's eyes darkened as Harry applied the slightest pressure. "Stop again and I won't be responsible for my actions," he warned the cheeky little shite. "Now. Get back. To work."

His grip on Draco's hair tightened ever so slightly with each word. He may or may not have imagined the slight shiver that ran down Draco's spine, but his tone must have been pretty damn forceful because Draco obeyed without further delay. Harry moaned as those clever lips wrapped around him again, sliding effortlessly and swallowing him right down to the root.

"Gods,  _yes._  Go on, suck me dry."

This time, Draco moaned. Harry's eyes rolled back in his head at the myriad sensations assaulting him— Draco's lips working his cock, his tongue lapping at the head, the hot, wet slide of his throat as he bobbed his head, those clever fingers squeezing gently at his balls.

It was so  _much._  It was so  _good._

"Faster," Harry hissed. "Merlin, Draco..."

Draco picked up the pace. His throat squeezed around Harry's cock and that's all it took for him to seize control again. Harry surrendered, too caught up in the fantastic sensation to bother with power play anymore. Draco could do whatever he wanted, just so long as he never stopped sucking Harry's cock like it was going out of style.

"Faster," Harry whispered. His hips were bucking frantically, desperate for more. It was honestly a testament to Draco's skill that all the jerking and thrashing didn't even phase him. "Please, Draco. Oh Merlin,  _please_ …so close...so damn  _close_..."

Draco raised his eyes to Harry's for one second. Silver eyes, blown with pleasure. Pink lips stretched around his cock. A low hum, deep in that pale, slim throat.

That was all it took.

Harry came with a stifled shout, deep in Draco's throat. Draco's eyes closed in pleasure and he swallowed with practiced ease.

If Harry hadn't just come, that sight would have been enough to send him over the edge again.

"You," he managed, "are going to kill me."

Draco released him with a smug chuckle. "That's the plan," he agreed, crawling up Harry's sated form like a snake and pressing a kiss to his lips. "We've got a whole season to hash this out, Potter. And I've got plans for you."

Harry managed a shaky laugh and hooked an arm around his waist to pull him closer. "Count me in, sidekick."


	2. PREQUEL

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prequel to the original, written at a later date.
> 
> Again, PREQUEL. NOT sequel.
> 
> Please enjoy :)

Harry laughed in delight, swooping and spinning through the air. The wind stung his face and whipped his hair around. His Firebolt was splintered and a little shaky on the uptake, a testament to the days and weeks and months of the gruelling practice he’d put it through for this moment. Harry silently vowed that if he made the cut, he would finally retire his trusty old friend. After all, the Appleby Arrows were almost exclusively sponsored by the Nimbus Racing Broom Company. As Seeker, he would be expected to fly one of their professional models, a 2020 Special Edition at the very least.

At the risk of showing off, Harry made another smooth flip before finally coming in for a landing.

The talent scout from the Arrows was jogging over. Harry tumbled off the broom and hastily scrubbed a hand through his messy hair, trying in vain to look at least a little presentable. He tried not to let his eagerness show but he suspected it was in vain. He wanted to play professional Quidditch like he’d never wanted anything before. This was all he’d ever dreamed of and it was written clear as day on his face. Besides, playing it cool had never been his style.

“Not bad,” the scout noted as he approached. Ridley Tanner was a young man, possibly in his early thirties, but he’d played Seeker for the Arrows for ten whole years before retiring on account of a bad ankle. That was a whole other kind of seniority. Harry felt slightly intimidated. He probably looked like an eager little kid to this bloke. “You’ve got a real unique style there, Potter,” Tanner continued. “Was that a Plumpton Pass I saw?”

“I’ve been practicing all month,” Harry replied immediately. He winced at his excited tone. He sounded like a rookie in the stands. Fortunately, Tanner seemed to approve.

“Commitment,” he noted with a nod. “We value that at the Arrows. Of course, you understand that if you go the distance, this will be what we call a ‘lazy Sunday morning’. It’s going to be nothing but practice, practice, practice in the rain, sun, hail, what have you! Think you can handle that?”

Harry’s heart thrummed in excitement. Tanner was already talking about real practice sessions on the team! That must mean he had a decent shot of making it, right?

“Absolutely!” he exclaimed. “I’m in for the long haul, sir. You can count on it! I’ve wanted this since I was eleven and...”

Tanner nodded distractedly, and waved him off. “Yes, yes. Everyone does,” he said with a touch of impatience. “But _wanting_ it isn’t enough. If you really want to play Quidditch, you’re going to have to bring your A-Game to the final round. I have a good feeling about you, Potter, but you have to show me that you’re the best, that you’re _better_ than the best. Being the famous Harry Potter won’t win you any points with me, you got that? We’re looking for sportsmen, not celebrities.”

Harry blinked in surprise at the stern note in Tanner’s voice. For a moment, his hackles rose and he almost shot back a retort on how being using his fame to get on his dream Quidditch team was the last thing he wanted. But finally, he offered an obedient nod and said nothing. If Tanner wanted him to prove himself, then Harry was fine with that.

That was all he’d ever wanted anyway— a fair shot, like everyone else.

“I won’t let you down, sir,” he said finally.

Tanner grinned and clapped his shoulder. “Excellent. Now, take a break and be back on the pitch in five. It’s between you and one other bloke. Winner takes all, and mind you, he’s good.”

With that, Tanner left, offering another friendly clap on the shoulder and a _good luck, Potter._ Harry took a deep breath and sat down on the pitch to wait, trying to keep his stomach from knotting up.

This was it. This was The Big Leagues.

* * *

 

Tanner returned on the dot. Harry sprang up at once and picked up his broom. From the corner of his eye, he spotted someone else jogging in from the far right but he was too nerve wrecked to bother with his future contender. If Tanner had some last minute instructions, he was getting Harry’s complete attention.

“So, let’s keep this short, yeah?” Tanner said, striding up with a buzzing Snitch loosely clasped in his fingers. “Standard rules, keep it simple. Catch the Snitch, you’re on the team. No second chances, no rematches, nothing. It’s all or nothing. Got it?”

Harry gulped. His eyes strayed to the Snitch in Tanner’s hand. His dream was centred round that small gold ball. The Snitch had never looked quite so small and fast before.

“Ready, boys?”

Tanner’s voice rang out with purpose and Harry jumped to attention.

“Ready,” he blurted.

“Same,” another voice drawled.

Harry blinked. He hadn’t even noticed that the other bloke was right next to him. He turned around on instinct...

...only to be faced with the last person he ever wanted to see.

“Hello, Potter,” Malfoy sneered, hoisting his broom on one shoulder.

Harry gaped soundlessly, too shocked to react as Malfoy’s condescending gaze drifted over him.

“Oh good,” Malfoy drawled with a sharp grin. “This will be easier than I thought.”

The jab brought Harry back to ground zero. “You,” he hissed, taking an aggressive step forward.

“Me,” Malfoy agreed with a smirk.

Malfoy. Malfoy was here. Malfoy was his contender for the Seeker position! That thrice damned snake had slithered into the scene to steal Harry’s dreams away! He was back, just in time to ruin Harry’s life for the millionth time!

Like hell this was happening!

This was _Harry’s_ big moment. This was _it_ and Malfoy was not getting his grubby paws on Harry’s dream without a fight.

He bared his teeth in the imitation of a snarl. Malfoy merely offered a cool smile. Harry’s fists clenched and he had to actively keep from launching himself at the snotty git.

 “I understand you’ve played each other at Hogwarts, yes?” Tanner noted, Summoning a clipboard and scribbling some notes down.

“Once or twice,” Harry bit out.

_Training for the ballet, Potter?_

Merlin, he could scream. How was this even _happening_ to him?!

Tanner nodded, still scribbling obliviously. “Normally, we try to avoid that in the tryouts. You know his style, he knows yours, it’s a bit tricky when we’re judging you objectively. But you two were practically tied for first place, so we’ll make it work.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t necessarily call what Potter does a ‘style’,” Malfoy commented lazily, “unless almost ingesting the Snitch qualifies as a tactic.”

“No more so than buying a place on the team with a stack of shiny new brooms from Daddy,” Harry shot back with a sneer.

He _so_ did not need this right now. But Malfoy was clearly looking for a fight and Harry had seven years of bad blood with this bastard and it wasn’t going away in a hurry.

Malfoy’s smile faded at the jibe and his eyes narrowed. “Watch your back, Potter,” he hissed.

“ _You_ can watch it,” Harry retaliated, “when I leave you in the dust and catch that Snitch.”

Malfoy took a step forward and Harry followed suit. He was on the verge of pulling his wand out when Tanner’s sharp bark rang out.

“Oi!” he snapped angrily. “None of that on my pitch! We’re here to play a good, clean game and that’s it! Keep the trash talk to a minimum, is that clear?”

“Fine with me!” Harry rounded up on him. “But just so we’re clear, don’t expect a _good, clean game_ from Malfoy. He cheats like he breathes! You won’t even see it coming!”

Tanner considered that. “Good,” he announced finally.

Harry’s jaw dropped. “What?!”

Tanner gave him a stern look. “If he can get a foul past me, he’s welcome to it,” he said firmly. Then he turned to Malfoy. “You won’t. And if I catch you, you’re done.”

Malfoy scowled and opened his mouth to argue but Tanner beat him to it.

“And I suggest both of you think long and hard before I hear _any_ nonsense about people getting a spot on this tryout because they’re famous _or_ infamous,” he declared sternly. “You’re being judged on talent and nothing else. If this is acceptable, I suggest you mount your brooms. Otherwise, the exit’s that way.”

Malfoy’s mouth shut with an audible snap. Harry mentally gloated at his sullen expression. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. Tanner was clearly looking at skill and if Malfoy couldn’t cheat, Harry would beat him hollow. He was confident about that.

Without another word, Harry stalked off to the centre. Malfoy held his head up and marched, taking a stand across from him. His eyes flashed as he focused on Harry. Harry’s jaw clenched and his fist tightened on his broomstick.

There was a moment of silent tension so thick Harry could almost taste it. Then Tanner blew the whistle and released the Snitch.

* * *

 

The whole world was a blur.

Harry’s snarl of frustration was lost in the wind as Malfoy swerved past him _again,_ blocking his straight shot at the Snitch. He jagged to the left, infuriatingly aware of the pale shadow on his tail.

So far, the match had been gruelling. Malfoy was fast and tricky, relying on smooth twists and sudden misdirection to throw Harry off track. Twice now, the bastard had feigned a move in one direction only to have Harry quickly follow and then change course. He was trying to run Harry ragged and damn him, he was succeeding.

The Snitch was no better. If Harry didn’t know better, he’d say the damned thing was rigged to be faster and lighter than the standard Snitch. He had come within inches of it before it dive-bombed and vanished to the other end of the pitch.

His knuckles were strained by his deathly grip on the broom and the wind had picked up too. Thankfully, Harry had practiced and had an easier time with sudden air currents. Malfoy was staggering against the punishing gust and by the looks of it, it was starting to take a toll on him too.

_Just a little more,_ Harry told himself fervently. _You beat him before, you can do it again. It’s just like Hogwarts._

But it really wasn’t. Harry was man enough to admit that Malfoy had become shockingly good over the years. He hadn’t pulled a foul once— although that was probably more out of fear of Tanner’s hawk like eye than any concept of sportsmanship— but he was holding his own. Meanwhile, Harry was starting to falter. This was the most intense match of his life and this was only the bleeding tryout!

And then, Quidditch did what it always does. It changed the whole course of the game in a split second.

A flash of gold caught Harry’s eye. The Snitch was buzzing by a goalpost, well out of reach. Harry just barely caught a glimmer of the sun on one small, white wing. But it was there. He definitely saw it.

So did Malfoy.

Malfoy veered off course and headed straight for the gold. Harry let loose a cry of outrage and sped up, right on his tail. The wind whistled as he flew right across the pitch, gaining inch by agonizing inch on Malfoy. The Firebolt trembled violently against the force. Harry prayed fervently, mentally pleading with the broom to pull through, just one more time. He leaned forward and _willed_ himself forward.

Malfoy’s hand stretched out. They were neck and neck now. Harry shot an arm out, in pure desperation. The Snitch, caught off guard by an onslaught from two directions, fluttered fretfully before making a decision and veering slightly to the left.

Right into Harry’s waiting hand.

**“Yes!”** he howled, grasping the golden ball in a death grip. “Fucking hell, **yes!”**

“No!” Malfoy snarled.

But it was done. Harry beamed as he swooped to the ground with the Snitch firmly tucked in his hands.

He had done it! He was the new Seeker for the Appleby Arrows!

Harry laughed and tumbled from his broom, not even caring that he grazed his shin as he landed on the hard ground.

Tanner jogged over and helped him up with a grin. “Now that’s real Quidditch!” he praised, shaking Harry’s hand. “Well done, Potter. You’re in.”

There was a slight thump behind them. Harry turned and his grin only widened as Malfoy landed and promptly kicked his broom out of the way. He scrubbed his hands through his hair in frustration. His lip was curled in a near snarl and the expression on his face spoke of murderous intent.

Harry had never been happier.

“Hey, Malfoy,” Tanner offered with a placating smile, “It was a real good effort. Maybe next year, yeah?”

Malfoy said nothing. He just stalked over to the bench and tugged at the lacings of his boots. A Quaffle rolled in his way and he kicked at it.

_Sore loser,_ Harry thought smugly. Well, it wasn’t his problem. He’d won this time and Malfoy could bloody well suck it.

“I’ll be back with the paperwork,” Tanner said. He cast a semi sympathetic glance in Malfoy’s direction before shaking his head and giving Harry a stern, if slightly amused look. “Try not to rub it in too much, okay?”

Harry made no promises, but he _was_ nice enough to wait until Tanner was well out of sight before swaggering over to Malfoy.

“Tough break,” he offered, with a cheeky grin.

Oh, alright, so it wasn’t the nicest thing to do but Malfoy had it coming. Harry could afford to rub it in a _little_ , couldn’t he?

“Sod off, Scarhead,” Malfoy muttered. He was staring straight ahead, evidently trying to burn a hole in the grass with his glare.

It was just too good to pass up.

“Don’t feel bad, Malfoy,” Harry teased with a grin. “You did the best you could. Of course, it wasn’t as good as my best but then, what else is new?”

“I said fuck off!” Malfoy snarled, getting up and barging into his space. “You got lucky and you know it! The Snitch practically flew into your hand and isn’t that just typical?! Fucking Potter and your fucking luck! That wasn’t a fair win by any standards, and you can remember _that_ when you play for the Arrows!”

Harry bristled defensively. A part of him was loath to admit it, but Malfoy was right. He _had_ gotten lucky in that last minute with the Snitch. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t put his all into it! He had won fair and square!

“Hey, don’t get snippy with me just because you’re not good enough to play real Quidditch!” he growled. Malfoy’s eyes _burned_ at that and Harry felt a vicious stab of satisfaction. “Yeah, that’s right. Here’s the stone cold truth, Malfoy: I won. You lost. Deal with it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Malfoy sneered dismissively. “Harry Potter gets whatever he wants by sheer dumb luck. In other news, Weasley is poor.”

Harry’s blood raged as Malfoy turned his back on him and picked up his broom. He didn’t even know why he was so angry. He had won, after all, and there wasn’t a damn thing Malfoy could do about it. He was going to be a professional Quidditch player and that was huge. But...for some reason, the words _sheer, dumb luck_ rang in his head. After all these years, was it too much for Malfoy to admit that Harry did have talent? That he was good?

And that’s when Harry came to the horrifying realisation that he wanted Malfoy’s admission. He wanted his arch rival to admit that he was a bloody good Seeker. He actually _wanted_ Malfoy’s approval.

The thought was more than Harry could stand and he reacted the only way he knew how with Malfoy. By being an utter prat.

“Hey, don’t go crying yet, Malfoy!” he yelled out. “We might still have an opening on the Arrows for a water boy!”

Even as he said it, Harry realised it was one step too far. Malfoy stiffened. He turned around. His face was a study in rage and before Harry could even register what he’d just done, the Quaffle flew from Malfoy’s hand and got him smack bang in the face.

**THWACK!**

Harry went flying and crashed down with a yelp of pain. His glasses had flown right off his face by the force of Malfoy’s attack and he was pretty sure his nose was bruised, if not broken. Harry whimpered in pain and curled in on himself, right there on the pitch.

“Congratulations, Potter!” Malfoy yelled. “There’s your first injury as a professional Quidditch player! I hope a Bludger clocks you right in the groin!”

Harry was only vaguely aware of the bastard striding off. He only opened his eyes when he felt a firm hand shaking him. Harry looked up, only to see Tanner’s exasperated face.

“What did you do?” he demanded.

Harry winced, partly in pain and partly in guilt. “Something immature,” he admitted truthfully. In all fairness, he couldn’t blame Malfoy for this. He really _had_ deserved it.

Tanner scoffed. “He got you good, didn’t he?” he chided. “A punch like that leaves a mark.”

“It wasn’t a punch,” Harry groused. “He threw a bleeding Quaffle at me.”

He wasn’t anticipating Tanner’s strange reaction. His expression changed abruptly, flitting from annoyance to surprise to...something else. Something speculative. “A Quaffle,” he repeated slowly. “You’re telling me Malfoy hit you point blank in the face with a Quaffle?”

Harry nodded sullenly. He didn’t really feel like a winner anymore. The spat with Malfoy had put a damper on his good mood. Vaguely, he wondered why he persisted on scrapping with the bastard if he didn’t even have the benefit of vindictive satisfaction anymore. Old habits, probably.

“How far away was he?”

Harry blinked in surprise at the question.

“Malfoy,” Tanner clarified impatiently. “Exactly how far did he throw the Quaffle?”

Really? This was the important bit? “He was over there,” he muttered grudgingly, gesturing at the bench. “Probably needed some distance for a running start.”

Tanner’s eyes tracked the distance between the bench and Harry’s fall from grace. He whistled appreciatively. “Good aim.”

“Bully for him,” Harry groused. Merlin, his face really hurt. He hissed in pain as Tanner steadied him with a firm hand.

“You need to see a Field Healer,” he declared firmly. “I’m not authorised to cast an Episkey or I’d do it myself. We’ll sign the contract when you’re fixed up.”

Harry nodded and started to trudge off the pitch.

“Oh, and Potter...”

Harry turned around. Tanner’s expression was mildly disapproving. “Quidditch is a noble sport. There are rules both on and off the pitch that _have_ to be followed. Rule number one: never rub your victory in someone else’s face. It’s bad sportsmanship.”

Harry felt a hot trickle of shame in his stomach. “I’ll apologise to Malfoy,” he mumbled, “assuming I ever see him again.”

He doubted it. If they ever crossed paths again, Malfoy was far more likely to skewer him than speak to him.

Tanner’s brow quirked. “Well, you never know. You might see him sooner than you think. Now go see that Healer. Your face looks like the back end of a Bowtruckle.”

* * *

**A few days later:**

Harry sat alone in his small flat, shuffling the papers on his desk. His contract was laid out in front of him, signed and sealed and official. He started practice with the team on Monday.

By all accounts, this was the happiest day of his life and yet, he couldn’t bring himself to really enjoy it.

Ron and Hermione had called about a thousand times, asking him to meet them at the Leaky, but Harry wasn’t in the mood to celebrate. His thoughts just kept going back to the tryouts and the way he’d acted. Merlin, he’d been such an arse. Did he even deserve his good fortune? And yes, he did admit that it was only good fortune that had got him as far as it had. Yes, he had worked and slogged for this, but so had Malfoy. The only difference was that Harry had been in the right place at the right time and Malfoy had been two steps behind him. That’s why he was one of the Arrows now and Malfoy wasn’t.

And what had Harry done? He’d gloated and rubbed his win in Malfoy’s face like a six year old with the bigger Chocolate Frog Card collection.

It wasn’t right. And he wanted to apologise to Malfoy, he really did— if only to get this guilt out of his system, but he just couldn’t bring himself to light up the fireplace and make the call...

A sudden knock on his door jerked him out of musings. Harry hurried over, swung the door open and promptly froze in his tracks.

“Malfoy?”

Malfoy looked vaguely uncomfortable as he shuffled on Harry’s porch. “Hello, Potter,” he greeted quietly. “May I come in?”

Harry just stared in silence until Malfoy cleared his throat impatiently. Then he stepped aside and ushered Malfoy in.

“Tanner gave me your address,” Malfoy explained. “He said you needed to talk to me. He was quite...insistent about it.”

Harry winced. “Yeah, about that,” he began. “I need...I mean, I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

This time, Malfoy froze. “Sorry,” he repeated, as if the word was strange to him. Being Draco Malfoy, it probably was.

“Yeah,” Harry confirmed with an uncomfortable nod. “I acted like a prat and you didn’t deserve that. You were brilliant at the tryouts and you deserved a spot on the team as much as I did. I think I was angry because you were right. I did get lucky back there. It just...hurt to hear it.”

Malfoy took all that in with a blank expression. “Well, as long as you admit it,” he offered finally.

Harry bristled indignantly before noting Malfoy’s grin. Oh. Teasing. This was Malfoy teasing him.

“If it helps, I wanted to apologise too,” Malfoy stated hesitantly. “I...reacted badly to losing and I’ve been informed by my Mother— several times actually— that she raised me better than that. Therefore, I came here to say: Potter, I’m sorry I hit you in the face with a Quaffle.”

Harry barked out a surprised laugh. He felt better all of a sudden, like a load had been lifted off him. “It’s alright,” he said. “You’ve done worse. We both have.”

“Maybe it’s time we put that behind us.”

Malfoy’s suggestion had a questioning tone and Harry hastened to agree.

“I think I’d like that,” he agreed at once. “And again Malfoy, you were good out there. Really good. If it means anything, I think you should keep trying. Who knows? Maybe we’ll see each other on the pitch some day.”

Malfoy’s smile turned sly all of a sudden. Harry was instinctively wary before recalling that he’d offered a truce not ten seconds ago.

“It’s funny you should mention that,” Malfoy drawled. “Tanner sent me here to ‘clear the air’, as it were, because we’re both going to be playing for the Arrows next season.”

Harry blinked in confusion. Both of them...? But he was the Seeker so...was Malfoy a Reserve? Or was it like a...

“Chaser,” Malfoy answered his unspoken question. “Tanner thought my aim was rather impressive and with a little work, I could make it as Chaser when Betty Royce retires next month. Apparently, I have _you_ to thank for that.”

Harry burst out laughing. He couldn’t help it, it was so ridiculous. Of all the insane things that had happened to him, this definitely made it in the Top Five. When he finally subsided, Malfoy was watching him with an amused grin of his own. Harry thought he looked rather nice when he smiled. He hastily brushed that thought away.

“Congratulations,” he said instead, holding his hand out.

Malfoy’s fingers slipped into his, slim and strong. Harry swallowed at the brush of skin. “And to you,” Malfoy offered softly. “I suppose I’ll see you on the pitch then, Potter.”

“I’ll be there,” Harry promised. “And we’re going to be unbeatable, you’ll see.”

Malfoy replied with an amused chuckle and turned to leave. “By the way, Potter,” he said suddenly, pausing on his way out. Silver grey eyes drifted to Harry’s face again, open and honest for once. “You’re a good Seeker. I may not have said as much before but...the Arrows are fortunate to have you.”

Harry smiled back, trying to ignore how his heart soared at the simple words.

_He thinks I’m good. He really thinks I’m good._

It was absurd, really.

“Of course, your stupid lucky streak helps.” Malfoy drawled, as he walked away. “At least I’ll have it on my side for once. See you Monday, Potter. Bring your A-Game.”

The door clicked shut as he left and Harry allowed himself a genuine smile.

Things had worked out just fine, after all. With that thought, he lit the fireplace up and made a Floo Call to Ron and Mione.

It was time to celebrate.


End file.
